


Talk Is Cheap

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my first time trying to get into Alistair's head- I hope he suits! I'm electing not to write the pr0ns just because the last time I wrote slash a single scene took nearly 5k words and I did want to do a few other things today, hehe. Plus the dialogue itself is practically pr0ns anyway...</p><p>From a prompt on the k!meme:</p><p><i>Alistair may be a virgin, but you don't live to your 20s and don't develop some seriously interesting wank fantasies. He has had no 'formal' sex education of any kind, so he has no idea when one thing is dirtier than the other and no inhibitions regarding them past "All sex without marriage is not to be had, and none for Templars ever" drilled into him by the Chantry. </i></p><p><i>One night while in a tavern, Alistair gets drunk for the first time. However, a drunk Alistair is a talker. A very *honest* talker. Zevran is honestly shocked, and insanely turned on. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Is Cheap

"Are you...sure we should be doing this?"  Alistair looked blearily over at the Antivan who was pushing another mug of ale into his hands.  "I'm pretty sure that the-" he hiccuped, loudly- "Chantry doesn't approve of drinking to excess.  Or drinking at all, really-"

Zevran rolled his eyes, taking another sip of the smooth brandy that burned so pleasantly.  "Come now, my friend- with an Archdemon at our heels and nobles at our throats, surely one night of relaxation is permissible?"

Alistair nodded agreeably.  "You're right, of course, it's just that I've never drunk anything like this, and not so much of it, either- I suppose that would follow given that I've never drunk anything like this and I'm going on again, aren't I, just ignore me-" he drained the mug, and setting it down oh-so-carefully looked over at the elf.

"What I don't understand-" he enunciated carefully, eyes wide and soft as he attempted to maintain a facade of sobriety- "Is why I'm doing this with  _you_ , of all people.  Why isn't Oghren here, or Mahariel?"

Zevran smiled, taking another appreciative sip of his brandy.  "Oghren spent all his coin on ale of the portable sort, and that ridiculous donkey that carries it for him.  Thus, unless we wished to bankrupt ourselves by inviting the dwarf at our expense, it is far better to leave him drinking in the company of his ass."

Alistair giggled drunkenly.  "I can't believe you just said that," face cracking into a wide grin, "Oghren and his  _ass_  drinking together-" he collapsed into a fit of helpless laughter.

Zevran grinned despite himself, even white teeth flashing in his tanned face.   _Hacedor_ , this one was an entertaining drunk.

Once they'd both regained a modicum of seriousness, Zevran continued:  "As for Mahariel, the man has been hopelessly besotted with our lovely Chantry sister for some time now.  Even now, I have no doubt they are engaging in-  _other-_  pursuits."

Alistair rolled his eyes.  "Maker, again?  You'd think they never get tired of it, night after night of rutting and  _noises_  and how is a man supposed to sleep through that?"  His face took on an expression of righteous indignation.

Zevran shook his head.  "Perish the thought, my friend, that  _anyone_  would ever tire of such activity.  But of course, perhaps you have a somewhat different perspective, being, how shall I say this, woo-less?"

Alistair gritted his teeth.  "It's not fair, you know, to keep throwing that in my face.  It's not as if I haven't  _wanted_  to, it's just- well, lack of opportunity, what with the abbey, then the Templars, and now the Blight."

Zevran leered, more out of habit than anything else.  "I assure you, my dear Warden, you have but to say the word and you shall have more than enough  _opportunity_."

Alistair's face turned a charming shade of red, but the sheer amount of drink he'd imbibed meant that whatever inhibitions he'd normally had were clearly not present.

"And  _you_ ," he said, poking a finger in the elf's chest, "Are a sodding  _tease_.  You flirt and charm your way into everyone's good graces, and if you had your way into their beds, too, I've no doubt."

Zevran laughed.  "Are you admitting my charm, dear Alistair?  I rather thought that your interests lay, hmm, elsewhere?  Or perhaps you have at last fallen under the spell of my high cheekbones and pouty lips?  Or perhaps it's the accent-"

"Shut up," Alistair said roughly, and Zevran's eyebrows nearly met his hairline at the gruff tone.  "You have  _no_  idea where my interests lay, not that I even  _have_  interests, being-" he made a disgruntled sound, " _woo-less_ , and you can't even  _imagine_  the things I've imagined.  Does that make sense?  You can't imagine my imagination imagining things about imaginary situations involving non-imaginary people-"

Zevran let out a choked sound of laughter- this was  _far_  too much fun.  "Oh, I don't know, my friend- I have quite the active imagination, as well.  Perhaps I could imagine your imaginings after all?"

Alistair gave him a dark look, and in a single moment Zevran was reminded that this man wore plate as if it were cloth, had trained in swordplay for nigh on a decade, had been weeks away from becoming a Templar.

The small frisson of adrenaline, the small hint of  _danger_  in that glance made Zevran's breath catch.

"I've imagined shutting up that mouth of yours," Alistair said, with just a hint of menace, and Zevran licked his lips.  Oh, this was good.

"And how would you do that, my friend?" he purred.

Alistair saw the invitation, the slight hitch in the elf's breathing as he leaned in, and helpless to resist, he simply let go of that last bit of himself that was screaming, faintly,  _shutupshutupshutup._

"I'd push you to the ground and put my hand over your mouth, and if you  _dared_  to bite me I'd make sure you regretted it," he said.  "Once you were quiet I'd find a nice, clean cloth, and make you bite on it before I tied it tight, and you'd shut up then, wouldn't you?"

Zevran made a small sound in his throat, transfixed.

"And you have such dark skin, from your head to your arms to those hints of leg in between your boots and that damnable leather skirt you run around in," Alistair continued, ale forgotten as he leaned in, "I'd take all of it off you, piece by piece, and find out if elves are really hairless everywhere.  And you'd let me, wouldn't you, Zevran?"

Zev remained perfectly silent- anything he said might break the spell, might remind Alistair of who he was, where he was, and who he was talking to, and if he stopped now Zev might actually kill him.

Alistair leaned in.  "Even now, I can practically taste you, Zevran; every time we've washed in a river or stream I see you and those bars of soap you hoard like a miser, and when you rub them over your skin I can  _smell_  you, spicy and dark and foreign.  Nothing in Ferelden smells like that."

"Herbal soap from Antiva," Zevran managed to reply, "I stock up whenever I have the chance."

"Once I had you naked underneath me, Zevran, I'd run my mouth over you, the crook of your neck, the skin on the inside of your elbows, the backs of your knees, and see if you taste as good as you smell," Alistair continued, "And when I'd had my fill I'd sit you up, take those damnable braids out and run my hands through your hair, maybe pull a little bit, at least until tears came to your eyes and you'd be begging me to stop or begging me for more behind that cloth, which would it be, I don't know."

Zev swallowed but remained perfectly still.

"And then I'd take off all my clothes and untie that cloth and put my hands in your hair, and I'd fill your mouth with something else, and you'd like that, me hard in your mouth, and I'd watch you struggle with it, and you  _would_  struggle, Zevran," he promised.

Zev whimpered, hard as a rock but unable to move an inch.

"And if you were a good little assassin I'd let you put both hands around me, let you touch and stroke everything you can't fit in your mouth, and I'd tell you how good it felt, I'd clench my teeth and moan and watch every second of it, my hands in your hair, watching you suck my prick."

"I was almost a Templar, you know," he continued, conversationally, and Zev's mind struggled to follow the abrupt change in topic, flushed with desire.  "Do you know why Templars take lyrium?"

Zev shook his head in negation.

"Lyrium is a bridge between the Fade and the real world- it's one of the few things that exist in both places, simultaneously- every lyrium vein in the Fade exists in the real world.  And mage's connections to the Fade are also a bridge- the only way to fight that connection, to break it, temporarily, is to become a sort of mage yourself, by taking lyrium, so you can feel it when they draw on the Fade."

Zev nodded, waiting for the man to continue speaking.

"But mage's connections to the Fade are seated in the same place as their emotions- it's why the Tranquil feel nothing when you break that connection permanently, and why they seek that connection when they're scared or cornered.  As a Templar, when you drain their mana, take away that pool of emotion and connection, you feel it, taste it, as if it were your own.  Some templars get addicted to that feeling, and will do anything as an excuse to drain mages."

He looked away.  "I did it, once, you know, for training- they make you take lyrium and practice, although you don't get addicted until you take it regularly.  But when I drained him, and I felt all those feelings, that fear, and desire and want and love and hate and hunger all rolled up- it's like being drunk on another person's feelings."

He continued-  "You're no mage, and I'm no Templar, but I'd make you beg me, make you tell me exactly what you want, exactly what you're feeling, until I was drunk on you, filled with you, until I could  _taste_  your desire, your frustration, until it rolled through me like a drug I couldn't possibly have enough of."

Alistair took in a breath.  "I'd take you to my bed, and lay you down, and I'd make you tell me everything you want me to do to you, and then I'd do it, and I'd watch you fall apart, and I'd make you cry and writhe and moan and come for me, as many times as I wanted, until you begged me to stop, until the only thing you could say between breaths would be 'stop' and 'please' and maybe my name, over, and over, and I wouldn't stop, not until I'd had enough, not until you couldn't even speak any more.  And do you know what I'd do to you then, Zevran?"

Zev shook his head, mind full of images-  _oh, yes_ , he'd tell Alistair  _exactly_  what to do, and let him do it as long as he wanted, even if it killed him, it'd be worth it, absolutely worth it-

"The boys at the abbey used to talk about it, at night, how you could take a man like a woman, by putting your prick in their arse, and they'd laugh and snigger and talk about how dirty it was, but I bet you like it, don't you, Zevran?  I bet you like being taken like a woman, you'd like it if I flipped you over, and you'd tell me exactly how you like it, what to do, and I'd do it, I'd put myself inside you, and you'd be hot and tight, wouldn't you, tighter than a hand around my prick, and you'd cry out, and beg me to stop, not to be so rough, but I'd be as rough as I like, and push into you, over and over until I couldn't take it any more, and I'd come inside you, and you'd come too, wouldn't you, Zevran?"

Zevran found his voice, briefly enough to say, thickly, "Talk is cheap, my dear Alistair- are you man enough to follow through on all of these promises?"  He arched an eyebrow in challenge, and prayed, just for a moment,  _Oh, please, let it be enough-_

Alistair growled, and throwing a few silver on the table, grabbed the elf's hand and pulled him upstairs towards their rooms.

As Alistair pushed him into the room, then clumsily pushed the door closed and locked it before turning to face him, desire and determination in his eyes, Zevran let out one final prayer to the Maker-

 _Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you-_

And then Alistair was on him, and there were no more words.


End file.
